The street has a borrowed memory. A single string of red lights hovers above a row of stalls wrapped in blue tarps. The sticky, heady mouthful of the smell of raw meat is everywhere. The romance of fried chicken, the ground sticky with the sludge of life
From a hardware store, all lit up, goods spill into the dark street. When the traffic is heavy, the exhaust is the air, the air is the exhaust.
All these buses need movement the same way the stomach needs food.